Hope's Betrayal (15 page)

And yet a future
together could not happen. Even as he showered kisses down the arched length of
her throat, even as he tasted her honeyed skin, joy turned to sadness. This
could not be. His life was founded on honor. Even as a boy, he’d looked down on
those that broke the rules—and Hope was just such a person.

Love could not
reconcile that fact.

Panting, he
pushed himself upright and rolled away to hide his face.

“What is it?”
she touched his shoulder.

“I’m going
away.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t live
like this, it's not fair to either of us. Hope, I’m going away.” In the depths
of her opaline eyes he read such hurt that part of him died.

“I’ve requested
a secondment to the Southwest.”

“Because of me?”

He owed her the
truth. “Yes, and because I have sworn to finish the job begun here. And I can’t
do that near you.” 

“How long will
you be gone?”

“Permanently.”

“Forever?” She
gasped.

“Yes, this
posting was only ever temporary while HMS Swann was in refit. Once my ship is
seaworthy again I go back to sea.”

“So I may never
see you again?”

“Depending on
what the future brings, quite possibly.”

A sense of
futility almost overwhelmed him as he jumped up and dusted down his clothes.

"I shall
meet you back at the house." He turned away, knowing if he met her eyes he
would be undone. He gathered his shoes and stalked across the beach, while Miss
Tyler made no protest and watched him go.  Even then a small voice whispered in
his head that the Southwest wasn't far enough away to break Miss Tyler’s hold
on him.

Even though
Captain Huntley had been gone ten months, Hope still thought of him every day.
Sometimes she missed him with a sharp need which left her listless and adrift,
other times in a dull achy way like when remembering a favorite childhood pet.
Sometimes she stared out to sea, wondering what the Captain was doing and
praying he was safe. One time, she came across Jenkins with one of the
Captain's jackets, a button hanging off, and she volunteered to mend it—just to
touch something that was his. The rest of the day she'd been so distant and
distracted, that Lady Ryevale had thought she was sickening for something.

Sometimes Hope dreamed
of the Captain and woke with her core thrumming with heightened excitement, and
clung to the precious moments when, in dreamland, they were equals and a
different future possible. Other days she woke to the emptiness of knowing her
love would remain unrequited and spent the day unable to shake the melancholia.
The more time passed, the clearer it became that she loved George Huntley, with
a longing so deep, and so keen, she resented it.

That first
summer at The Grange, after the Captain had gone, she threw herself into estate
work, immersing herself in Her Ladyship’s correspondence, working day and night
on a new filing system.

Then autumn
came, and Hope's thoughts turned to her family on the Island, wondering how her
stepfather and Tom fared. She wrote home, enclosing her wages, but when she
didn’t hear back, knowing neither could write well, she wasn’t surprised. Deep
down she suspected Tom deliberately kept away, lest he be an embarrassment in
her new position.

At Christmas
time Her Ladyship’s other two sons, Charles and Jack, along with Jack's new
wife Eulogy, arrived. Suddenly The Grange was a changed place, injected with
noise and laughter. But when George was unable to get leave, Hope understood
her Lady Ryevale's sadness; in George they had a common, albeit unspoken, bond.
And with the start of a new year, a new temptation presented itself. Hope kept
remembering this time last year; the first anniversary of the Captain arresting
her, then the time he'd shown kindness by arranging for a hip bath, and when
they'd met by accident on the beach—each event filed away as a precious memory
of an illusion which could never be real.

With spring's
arrival, time did nothing to diminish her feelings but taught her to bury them.
Hope could enter the library without a feeling of loss and stand the sight of
the Captain's boots without flushing scarlet. She could think of him without
tightness in her chest, and she began to wonder if one day she might even be
able to say his name aloud without feeling light-headed.

It was on one
such spring afternoon, ten months after George's reposting, that Hope was
taking tea with Lady Ryevale. The sky was perfect porcelain blue, but the
temperature still lacked warmth. Outside on the lawn, the gardener hitched the
pony to the grass mower for the first cut of the year. In the distance, the
breeze caught the apple trees and blossom drifted lazily to the ground.

Lady Ryevale
followed her gaze. "I hope the weather will be better this year than
last."

Hope knew Her
Ladyship was thinking about the previous poor harvest and the hardship another
bad year would cause.

"I swear
the blossom is heavier—that's got to be a good sign."

"Indeed."

A polite tap on
the door and the footman entered.

"Ladyship,
may I announce his lordship, Lord Charles Huntley."

Lady Ryevale
looked startled. "Charles? Here?"

Jenkins seemed
unusually flushed and Hope felt uneasy.

"Well, this
is unexpected," Her Ladyship’s face fell. "I hope nothing's
wrong."

Brushing Jenkins
aside, Lord Charles Huntley strode past with the same vigor Hope recognised in
George. She was however, interested to note that her pulse remained steady
despite Charles’s startling good looks. Even those velvet-brown eyes and that
darling dimpled chin did nothing to raise her heart rate—quite unlike George's
effect on her composure.

Charles Huntley
was not a man to be ignored—with his strong jaw, abundance of dark hair and
immaculate garb—but most noteworthy was his air of authority which bordered on
arrogance. Charles saluted his mother.

"You are
well, Mama?"

"Quite,
thank you, Charles. But to what do I owe this surprise?"

His face grave,
Charles sat.

"The thing
is Mother, I have news."

Lady Ryevale
regarded him with growing alarm. "And from the suddenness of your visit
and serious tone, I gather it's bad news." She clenched her hands.

"Indeed."
Charles showed little emotion as he continued. "I won’t beat about the
bush—it's George."

Hope's heart
catapulted against her ribs.

"Go
on."

"The thing
is he's been injured."

"How
badly?" Her Ladyship’s hands crept toward her heart.

"That's the
rub." Charles raked his fingers through his hair. "It's difficult to
be sure. He sent this note."

Reaching into
his jacket pocket he pulled out the letter and handed it to his mother. Eyes
bright with distress she unfolded it and scanned the page. The paper dropped
into her lap.

"This isn't
George's writing."

"No. He
dictated it."

Hope felt
violently sick. "What does it say, Your Ladyship?" Her voice
quavered.

"I can’t
take it in. You tell us, Charles."

Charles took the
letter back. "It says, in the course of his duties George was shot. He
sends assurances he is on the mend and requests I tell you the news in person.
He also asks I travel to the Southwest in the carriage, to fetch him
home."

A low moan escaped
the older woman's lips, a feeling Hope could only echo.

"I couldn’t
bear it if he died."

"Now,
Mother, don’t be so dramatic. He's not going to die."

"But he had
to dictate the letter. Only dying men dictate letters."

"Or those
with injured hands."

"Oh, do you
think?"

"George is
indestructible."

"Or so he'd
like to think." Lady Ryevale looked on the point of fainting.

Hope trembled
and panic closed her throat, but as was her habit in times of crisis and seeing
Lady Ryevale grow paler by the second, she took control.

“He’s not dead.”
Hope said firmly, and deep down she knew it to be true. There was a connection
to George that was still there—without doubt, he lived.

“But what if..?”
Lady Ryevale shivered like a leaf in a high wind. “He might be mortally
wounded…dying as we sit here!” She stifled a cry, stuffing her fingers in her
mouth.

“Hot, sweet tea,
that’s what you need.” Hope signalled Jenkins who nodded and turned on his
heel.

With lips as
white as parchment, Lady Ryevale appealed to her son. “Please, read the letter
aloud. Tell me again he isn’t dead.”

Feeling sick to
her stomach, Hope hung on Charles' words. When he finished, he let the
parchment drop and something caught her eye.

“There,” Hope
pointed to the signature, “isn’t that Captain Huntley’s signature?”

"Indeed."

“Yes….but look,
it's dated two days ago," Her Ladyship quailed, "…he might have bled
to death by now…or infection set in.”

"That's
enough of that sort of talk," Hope said, more to steady herself than Lady
Ryevale.

"Quite
right too." Lord Huntley seemed to notice her for the first time.
"The girl is talking sense. Huntleys don’t give in. George is too stubborn
to let a mere gunshot stop him."

It was Hope's
turn to whimper.

“Fret not
ladies. I despatched a messenger from London for more news—and now I've spoken
to you, I will take the carriage to the Southwest. But there's always time for
tea—or something stronger.”

Charles relaxed
back into the chair, crossing one shin across his knee, the better to admire a
particularly fine pair of hessians. His certainty was calming and Hope gathered
her wits.

“We must be
brave for the Captain. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you distressed like this,
Ladyship. Why, he wrote to reassure—not alarm. Until we know otherwise, we
should assume the best.”

"Well said,
girl. Err, sorry, remind me what your name is?"

“Miss Tyler. And
besides—when Captain Huntley recovers, he’s going to think me a poor companion
if I let Lady Ryevale get into such a stew over a letter.”

Charles pushed a
heavy fall of dark hair back from his forehead. "And talking of George, I
remember the time he fell from the oak tree in the bottom meadow and landed on
his head. Jack and I were sure he was dead—but a block of wood for brains so no
damage done—least not so’s you’d notice.”

"No one
told me about this!” Lady Ryevale grew rigid.

“Relax Mother,
darling George was eight at the time and only unconscious for a few minutes. No
need to tell you, although now I come to think of it, the bang on the head
could explain his stubbornness.”

It seemed for
all his brash swagger, Charles had hit on a way to pacify his mother  by
regaling her with horror stories from George’s childhood. Before long, she was
so incensed by past behavior, she forgot to worry about the present.

 But as she
listened Hope hit on an altogether new concern—what if Captain Huntley had been
shot by a smuggler? His shaky opinion of her would be dinted still further.
Might he not then be able to stand the sight of her? And Lady Ryevale—her
attitude would cool once she realised one of Hope’s kind injured her son? A
sense of dread made her light-headed. She wanted with all her heart for George
to live, but what if nothing was the same again?

*****

Two men rode in
the carriage; the taller figure sat crumpled in the corner, biting his fist
with every jolt. In the gloom of the interior, Captain Huntley's face was
luminous as a moon, as if he'd been drained of every ounce of blood, but still
lived. Opposite him, on the other side of the coach was a debonair fellow, with
rebellious dark curls and lush brown eyes. Charles pretended to stare out at
the passing scenery, while covertly keeping an eye on his brother. 

It seemed winter
had set in early; gales battered trees and rain lashed down with wilting
intensity, turning fields into lakes and roads to quagmires. Those people with
a choice preferred not to travel, which at least meant the roads were
relatively clear, as the Huntley's coach and four slithered and slipped east
along the coast. 

At a groan from
his brother, Charles frowned.

"I suggest
we stop and rest at the next staging inn."

"No."

Charles cast
George an anxious look. "This is foolish, old man. You shouldn’t be
traveling at all. What's to be lost by staying a night or two?"

"No, we
keep going."

"As you
wish," Charles sighed, "but on your own head be it."